The Mafia King's Conditions

Lorrie stood frozen in the center of the vast room. Her father's sudden disappearance, her mother's worsening illness, and Bianca's high-society humiliation—it was all compounding into an unbearable weight crushing down on her chest.

She suddenly missed her tiny, cramped apartment with a fierce, aching intensity. At least there, her problems had made sense. They were bills she couldn't pay, leaks she couldn't fix. Here, everything felt dangerous, terrifyingly complicated, and utterly exhausting.

Lorenzo pocketed his phone, his expression smoothly shifting back into its default mask of cold indifference. "As of today, the security detail around the perimeter of the estate will double."

Lorrie's brows furrowed. "Because of my father?"

"No," he replied bluntly. "Because of my enemies. And because your father has a distinct talent for creating problems."

She bit her lower lip, looking away. "He made mistakes."

Lorenzo looked down at her, his gaze unforgiving. "Mistakes are forgetting an anniversary, Lorrie. Mistakes are missing business meetings. What Carlos Elmundo did was raw, calculated selfishness."

Lorrie lowered her gaze to the polished floorboards. She hated agreeing with him—hated that this cold stranger could see the rot in her family so clearly—but she simply didn't have the strength to defend her father anymore.

Rosa stood up from the table, smoothing her skirt and cutting through the heavy tension. "Enough. The poor girl has barely touched her breakfast." She walked over and gently took Lorrie by the arm. "Come along, dear. We'll have some quiet tea later. Let's leave this grumpy grandson of mine to wallow in his own silence."

Lorenzo completely ignored the comment, staring blankly ahead.

As soon as the double doors clicked shut behind the women, another figure stepped out from the shadows of the corridor and entered the dining room. He was tall, dark-haired, and wore a sharp navy suit. He couldn't have been older than thirty, and a permanent, teasing smirk rested on his lips.

Matteo Ricci. Lorenzo's underboss, his oldest confidant, and arguably the only man in New York allowed to mock the mafia king and live to tell the tale.

Matteo slid effortlessly into one of the vacant chairs. "Your grandmother really likes her."

Lorenzo didn't look up as he poured himself another cup of steaming black coffee. "She likes everyone."

"No, she doesn't," Matteo chuckled, leaning back. "She likes golden retriever puppies. She merely tolerates everyone else."

Lorenzo remained stonily silent.

Matteo leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his smirk widening. "So... how does it feel?"

Lorenzo finally raised his steel-gray eyes. "How does what feel?"

"Marriage."

"I wouldn't know."

"You literally signed a marriage certificate yesterday, boss."

"I signed a contract, Matteo," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave. "Not a love story."

Matteo let out a low laugh. "Still. Having a woman sharing your bedroom, sharing breakfast, defending her honor against the Moretti family..."

Lorenzo's eyes darkened dangerously. "I defended my family name. Bianca openly insulted Mrs. Dimitri. That reflects poorly on my authority, nothing more. Do not read into things that aren't there."

Matteo raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes danced with amusement. "If you say so, boss."

Lorenzo set his porcelain cup down with a sharp click. "Enough games. Tell me about Carlos."

Matteo’s playful demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by the cold seriousness of an underboss. "Our men completely swept the hospital and the surrounding blocks. There's no sign of him. His phone is pinging off grid, his bank accounts haven't been touched, and he didn't use any public transit. It's as if he vanished into thin air right after taking the cash."

"Find him," Lorenzo commanded. "Before someone else does."

"And if the rival families get to him first?"

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking beneath his scarred skin. "Then he becomes another weakness. And in our world, weaknesses get exploited until there's nothing left. I won't allow that."

Matteo nodded firmly. "Understood. I'll put more men on the streets."

Upstairs, Lorrie stood pacing inside her bedroom. Or rather, *their* bedroom. She still hadn't grown used to the phrasing, and the sheer scale of the space made her feel like a ghost rattling around in someone else's castle.

The door opened softly, and Maria entered, carrying several high-end, heavy velvet garment bags. "Mrs. Dimitri... Mr. Dimitri asked me to bring these up for you."

Lorrie let out a long, defeated sigh. "More dresses, Maria?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't need them. Please take them back."

Maria hesitated, looking terrified of the request. "He... he heavily insisted, ma'am."

Lorrie folded her arms across her chest. "Then tell him I heavily insist on refusing."

A faint, nervous smile tugged at the corner of Maria's mouth. In all her years working for the family, no woman had ever rejected a gift from Lorenzo Dimitri. Most actively begged, cried, or bartered for a fraction of his attention and wealth.

Before Maria could retreat, a firm knock sounded on the open door frame. The master of the house stepped inside, dismissing the maid with a brief nod. Maria practically vanished from the room, closing the doors behind her.

Lorenzo looked at the untouched, expensive bags resting on the velvet armchair, then at Lorrie. "You don't like them?"

Lorrie kept her arms crossed, squaring her shoulders. "I don't know. I haven't opened them."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't ask for them, Lorenzo."

"You are Mrs. Dimitri now," he said smoothly, taking a few steps into the room. "You will be required to attend high-profile charity galas and political dinners by my side. You need appropriate attire."

"I already own clothes."

"You own a pair of worn sneakers, three pairs of faded denim jeans, and a rotation of oversized sweaters that are older than my holding company."

Lorrie's eyes widened in sheer outrage. "You investigated me?"

"No," Lorenzo corrected calmly. "I had a team of professionals investigate you."

"That doesn't make it any better!"

"It wasn't supposed to."

A heavy, frustrating silence settled over the room. Lorrie exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to control the spike of anger in her veins.

"You know what? Keep the dresses," she said, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Keep the diamonds, the jewelry, the luxury bags, all of it. I didn't marry you because I wanted a taste of the billionaire lifestyle, Lorenzo. I married you. My mother was dying in a hallway, because my brother needed a future, and because I quite literally did not have a choice."

For the first time since they had met, Lorenzo actually looked *at* her. Not through her, not past her as a variable in a mathematical equation, but directly into her eyes.

"You always speak your mind," he murmured, genuinely intrigued.

"Should I lie to you instead? I thought that was against your precious rules."

"No," Lorenzo said softly. "I despise liars."

"Good. Then here is another truth for your collection." She took a bold step forward, narrowing the distance between them. "I don't belong here. I don't belong in this ridiculous mansion, I don't belong in designer silk, and I certainly do not belong in your dangerous world."

Lorenzo studied her face for several long, agonizing seconds. The silence grew heavy, almost intimate, before he finally spoke.

"Neither do I."

Lorrie blinked, completely thrown off balance. "What?"

He didn't offer an emotional explanation. Instead, he simply reached down, calmly adjusted his silver cufflinks, and looked past her toward the city skyline. "I built this empire, Lorrie. I rule every square inch of it. But I don't belong in it."

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bedroom, leaving her standing alone in the quiet luxury.

She was utterly confused. Again.

Lorenzo Dimitri was completely impossible to read. He was mercilessly cold one moment, brutally honest the next. He was terrifyingly protective of her in public, yet utterly detached the moment they were behind closed doors.

Lorrie sank onto the edge of the plush bed, realizing that surviving twelve months with this man would require far more than simple patience. It would require decoding a man whose heart had been locked away in a fortress of ice for years—and Lorenzo Dimitri had absolutely no intention of handing anyone the key.